On the Other Side
by ncfan
Summary: "Celebrimbor had never been one to give up easily. That was probably a good thing." On the making of the Elessar.


I own nothing.

* * *

Today, the Nenuial settlement was celebrating an anniversary. Anyone who had been personally affected by the event being celebrated preferred not to be present in the settlement when the festival started, as the occasion was not remembered with particular fondness by those who _had_ been personally affected by it. However, at least one of the leaders of the settlement needed to be in attendance. Celeborn and Galadriel took it in turns, year by year—one would attend the festival, and the other would take to the countryside. This year, it happened to be Celeborn's turn to attend the festival.

Today marked the anniversary of the victory of the Host of the Valar over Morgoth. Today marked the anniversary of the day when what was left of Beleriand was shattered by the Valar and drowned beneath the waters of the Belegaer. Today was the day when the First Age drew to a violent close, and perhaps it was celebrated so that the Edhil could forget the homes they had lost and the kin who had been taken from them.

Celebrimbor usually spent this day by himself, either dwelling deep in the recesses of the forges or out in the hills to the east, avoiding anyone he might come across. This time, however, Galadriel had taken Celebrían into the hills with her, and had tucked her arm around Celebrimbor's before he could slip away. It seemed that Celebrimbor would not be spending the anniversary alone this year.

Celebrían, twelve years old this past spring, was walking ahead of them. Her bright silver hair was coming out of its braid, and Celebrimbor sometimes lost sight of her in the long grass that swayed gently in the breeze. It didn't bother him. Galadriel wasn't worried, and besides, there had been no reports of Orcs in the past fifty years. It seemed unlikely that they would encounter anything more dangerous than themselves today.

He did think he'd be happier once the day was over, though.

"I admit that I must question the wisdom of holding festivals in the celebration of the War of Wrath's end."

Celebrimbor looked down at Galadriel, eyebrows shooting up. She had been content to walk in silence until now, speaking only to respond when Celebrían would call out to her. Celebrimbor had been quite content to walk in silence; the day would likely draw to a close more quickly if he did not engage anyone in conversation. He nodded, grimacing. "The Enemy's defeat is a joyous occasion, but yes, I agree with you."

Galadriel sighed nearly inaudibly, her green eyes glazed and far-away, normal levelness turning to pensiveness. She pursed her lips, some air of dissatisfaction making the gesture resemble a grimace.

He'd not particularly wanted to talk, but Celebrimbor was concerned enough that he could not help but ask, "What's wrong?"

She turned to him so suddenly that Celebrimbor wondered if, for only a moment, Galadriel had forgotten that he was walking beside her. Anor's light gleamed on her hair and her skin. She did not look like the person she was; Celebrimbor had no other way to explain it, except that she appeared as a stranger to him in that moment. "At the end of the First Age, I was offered the chance to return to Aman, if I would only… _repent." _Galadriel sounded out the word as tough it was something profane. "As you know, I refused. Were you ever offered the same opportunity?"

Celebrimbor nodded cautiously. "Yes, I was." After a long pause, he added (rather lamely, he thought), "I refused, obviously."

"Why was that?"

"…Why do you wish to know?"

"I have nothing but my curiosity, Telperinquar."

Drumming up the courage to speak, Celebrimbor told himself the same thing he told himself whenever Galadriel or Celeborn or Celebrían asked him such questions: they were not tale-bearers. Galadriel did not look upon him waiting for betrayal; she would not hold the things he had confided in her against him. She was his cousin, his friend, and in order for them to remain friends, he needed to trust her (_He needed to be someone that she could trust_).

But he let his mind wander to this topic so rarely that Celebrimbor could not formulate an answer readily. He frowned, staring over the green hills, dotted as they were by the occasional dark shape, an Edhel who had had the same idea he did. "…I have no clear memories of Aman, Galadriel. Ennor is the only home I have ever known. My kin were all buried on this side of the sea—" _Or vanished on this side of the sea_, he thought, but did not say "—even if their graves are now sitting beneath countless fathoms of seawater. The kin who dwell across the sea are unknown to me. There is nothing there for me."

If his father could have heard him say that there was nothing in Aman for him, Celebrimbor was sure he would have been chastised. Curufin had gone over the sea willingly and there was no denying that he seemed to enjoy the far-rougher life he lived in Beleriand, but he always described Aman as a place of great beauty and learning. He expressed regrets that Celebrimbor could not have learned among the great craftsmen and loremasters of Tirion, that Celebrimbor could not ride in the Woods of Oromë or wander the vast mountain chain of the Pelóri. Curufin enjoyed his life in Beleriand, but he was always careful to stress the superiority of Aman in his son's hearing. He would not have liked to hear Celebrimbor express such opinions as he did.

Galadriel nodded slightly. She still wasn't looking at him, still possessed a far-away, inscrutable look in her eyes (Though the latter was not at all unusual). "Aman was not as it used to be by the time of the Darkening," she said matter-of-factly. The wind buffeted her long, loose hair. "I was but a child when the Noontide began to sour; I barely understood why Aman was supposed to be a place of bliss." Her lip curled slightly for a moment before she let it fall, but her shoulders were tenser than before and Celebrimbor felt her arm grow rigid as well. "Endóre was never a promised place of bliss; it _was_ a promised place of peril.

"It was promised that our lives would be…" She broke off, frowning deeply. Galadriel stared out at Celebrían, who was in the process of trying to climb a larch tree—Celebrimbor got the impression that it was not really Celebrían she was looking at. "I wonder at how we have lost so much," she murmured, "and at how broken and diminished the world has become."

The words were familiar. Galadriel wasn't the first person Celebrimbor had ever heard say something like that. She disentangled her arm from his and walked on ahead to catch up to Celebrían, who was sitting on a low-hanging branch now and singing a Nandorin song Celebrimbor didn't recognize (He spoke some Nandorin, but not the same dialect Celebrían used). Celebrimbor stared at Galadriel's back, brow furrowed, and after a long moment, he followed.

-0-0-0-

When Celebrimbor returned to the settlement, he sequestered himself inside the forges.

The forges in the Nenuial settlement were multi-chambered. The main chamber was communal; any of the smiths could use it. There were also smaller chambers meant for private use, which could be rented on a monthly basis; they were usually employed when a smith was working on a personal project or a "delicate" commission. Some of the smiths paid rent on one of the smaller chambers every month, so that it would be available to them if they needed it.

Celebrimbor did not normally make use of the smaller chambers. He had learned that his fellows, as much as they didn't like to admit to it (and might not even have been aware of it), were more comfortable if he worked on his projects out where they could observe him. Everyone remembered the example of Fëanor, who loved to create jewelry nearly as much as his grandson did and had crafted the Silmarils in secret, refusing to allow anyone to gaze upon his work until it was completed. Celebrimbor knew the importance of keeping no secrets as regards to his work. He knew that it was not expected of him so much as there was a good chance that his fellows would grow suspicious of his suddenly beginning to work in secret. Especially on jewelry. _Especially_ on jewelry with magic worked into its fibers.

However, neither did Celebrimbor particularly enjoy having an audience to his failures—and it was unlikely that he would succeed at this at first. He rented one of the smaller chambers, handing over the required amount of coinage and moving in for what was likely to be quite a while.

-0-0-0-

No one knew how Fëanor had made the Silmarils. There were no surviving notes, diagrams, material lists or any such thing. No one knew what spells had gone into them to make them shine with the light of the Trees as they did. The most anyone knew was what Fëanor had let slip, that the casing was made of some material called 'silima'; from the appearance of the Silmarils, silima was obviously crystalline, though there were some who said that it had originally inhabited a liquid state. Whatever memories Celebrimbor had of the Silmarils were of the light that emanated from them, and not of the gems themselves; after the two still in Morgoth's possession were recovered at the end of the War of Wrath, he had not gone seeking them out. He had only the artistic recreations to go on.

No one knew how Fëanor had made the Silmarils, and no one had ever been able to recreate them even partially. An especially skilled jewel-smith could make beautiful white gems that aesthetically resembled the Silmarils in every way, but no one could ever make them shine with the same light. All that was clear to anyone was that the Silmarils were not solid, and that the light inside them that suffused the silima had been captured in some sort of liquid form.

As such, speculation ran rampant.

Some suggested that Fëanor had used the old blood magic of Cuiviénen (and that still proliferated in remote Telerin communities in Aman) to craft the Silmarils. Great enough spells worked with that sort of magic would claim the user's life if the power of the enchantment was broken. Whatever magic had been wrought to craft the Silmarils had clearly been a work of momentous power. Was it blood magic? Was that what Fëanor had meant when he asserted that the breaking of the Silmarils would claim his life?

There were others who assured anyone who spoke to them on the subject that Morgoth must have lent Fëanor some aid in the making of the Silmarils. It _would_ explain why Morgoth thought he had some claim to them, they said to themselves, nodding sagely. Morgoth had always been skilled at creating bastardized replicas of original work; perhaps that was how Fëanor had managed to suffuse his three gems with an approximation of the Trees' mingled light. Everyone who proposed this theory seemed to forget that Fëanor had been suspicious of Morgoth even before he slew Finwë and despoiled the Trees with Ungoliant's help, and had always refused to collaborate with the Vala.

A popular theory among the craftsmen of Lindon posited that no notes of the Silmarils' making survived because Fëanor had not _needed_ to take down notes. His memory was so keen that he did not need to write down any information about the Silmarils' making. Personally, Celebrimbor suspected that his grandfather _had_ taken down written notes, and had probably just burned them upon realizing that if he circulated instructions on how to make gems such ash the Silmarils his creations would no longer be unique. His grandfather had burned a lot of things, after all.

None of the tangible materials with which Celebrimbor intended to work were anything secret or special in and of themselves. The Hithaeglir was rich in deposits of green spinel, a stone Celebrimbor was fond of working with. Gold was often used with jewelry. The spells and enchantments Celebrimbor intended to use could be found in any tome on the subject. He would even provide instructions, if anyone ever wished to see them.

-0-0-0-

Celebrimbor had learned much from Finrod in Nargothrond, even if his cousin was not a smith. Finrod had been gifted in sorcery and magic, and had much to teach to those who would learn. Celebrimbor had some small aptitude in the art himself, stunted by lack of teaching in his early years, but not gone.

He had learned much from Enerdhil on Balar also. Celebrimbor had left before the Exiles of Gondolin came to the isle and the Havens of Sirion, and only returned during the War of Wrath, but both he and Enerdhil, being skilled smiths, were kept on Balar. Though Celebrimbor was not permitted to forge weapons, there were other things needed for the war that only a smith could make. Enerdhil was not unschooled in magic; in fact, in certain areas his skill was superior to Finrod's. Celebrimbor never forgot a word of what either of the two neri had taught him.

He never forgot a word of it, but that did not mean that the spells and enchantments came easily to him. It did not mean that he could cross spells devised by two different neri with ease.

Sometimes, Celebrimbor wondered how Enerdhil had managed to make the Elessar at all. In Gondolin, the smith had been limited to what materials could be found in the Echoriath, and had thus made his great work from glass. Celebrimbor had been amazed when Enerdhil told him that he had made his Elessar from glass. Glass had great difficulty retaining enchantments; it was so brittle that it would always shatter unless the enchantment was written into it with great care, and even then, that was no guarantee that the enchantment would hold and the glass would endure. Glass simply was not a material meant to hold magic.

Spinel and other precious stones were not really meant to act as recipients of spells or enchantments either. Metal and cloth could accept magic easily, but not stone. And while spinel did not shatter when the enchantment sung over it didn't take correctly, it did have a frustrating tendency to crack. Celebrimbor didn't know of much that could make spinel crack the way failed enchantments did.

It was a good thing that the last shipment of spinel from the Hithaeglir had been a large one, just as it was a good thing that Celebrimbor had taken custody of a good many of the stones. It was also a good thing that he wasn't one for giving up. If so, he might have given up around the third time he had to dump green shards of stone into the wastebasket and start carving a new piece of spinel into the shape he wanted.

Celebrimbor stared down at the green stone in his hands. Spinel really was such a beautiful stone, and the current one he had fashioned into a softly rounded oval shape was flawless and nearly as clear as glass. It looked like one of the emeralds from Belegost that he and his father used to work on, so many years ago. If Curufin could see what he was doing now, he would laugh at him and tell him to put aside thoughts of enchanting this stone. Curufin never had any use for enchanted jewelry. Charms on sword blades to keep them from rusting or breaking were far more useful.

"_I wonder at how we have lost so much."_

"_I wonder at how much that was good has gone out of the world, and what we are left with is marred and blighted. Why do you think I made that stone in the first place?"_

"_I wonder at how pessimistic you are!" Finrod said with a laugh, leaning over to tousle Celebrimbor's hair. "Perhaps you keep failing because you're so certain you'll fail."_

Celebrimbor sighed.

Spells for memory from Finrod. Spells for healing and renewal from Enerdhil, but the effect was only visual, and could only be seen when one looked through the stone. The Elessar, the stone of the Edhil, could grant healing to no one. It could only offer an image of what could be, if the Edhil set their minds to healing the world and their fellows themselves. When Enerdhil had first told Celebrimbor the tale of his own Elessar, Celebrimbor had almost found the idea cruel. Now, however, when he had set his mind to making one himself, he no longer thought it so cruel to give someone hope of what could be, if the Edhil could only set their minds to healing the wounds of the world.

All of the spells derived from song. Given that Finrod and Enerdhil were both Amanyarin Noldor, that was hardly surprising. Nearly all Amanyarin magic ultimately derived from the Vanyar, and as the One had sung the world into being, they considered song to be the highest form of magic and sorcery imaginable. The Noldor had devised some spells independent of the Vanyar's, but most of them required song as well—it seemed to simply be the easiest medium with which to push power into enchantment—and none of the charms the Noldorin craftsmen used on their works were complex enough for this.

And all of the songs were in Quenya, too. It wasn't the singing that bothered him. Celebrimbor did sing on occasion, and while his voice would never be the equal of his uncle's, he thought himself a fair singer. It was the Quenya. He was sure that anyone from his family, not just the House of Fëanor but any scion of Fingolfin or Finarfin's who had found themselves in Exile, would have been ashamed to hear him say such a thing. But the language _mattered_. A Quenyan song of power could not be sung in Sindarin. A Quenyan song-spell could not be translated into Sindarin or Khuzdul or Nandorin or Adûnaic and be expected to work properly. The power of the spell was bound up not only in the will of the caster but in its words, its _proper_ words.

Celebrimbor drew a soft breath. He sang the spells again, layering them one on top of the other. Finrod's songs of remembrance, to recall what had passed long ago. Enerdhil's songs of healing and renewal, to make young again that which was weary. One on top of the other, each laying themselves down in waves that made the stone in his hands grow ever more translucent.

It split in two in his hands.

-0-0-0-

"Celebrimbor?"

Celebrimbor knew it was Celeborn before he recognized the voice or looked up from his worktable. Celeborn was the only one who would have come looking for him and not knocked first. Indeed, it was Celeborn standing in the doorway of the room in the forges Celebrimbor had rented. Celebrimbor squinted away at the light filtering in through the high window, and smiled faintly at his friend and cousin-by-marriage.

Celeborn's gaze went to the hearth. "No fire?" he asked, in what seemed a light tone, but for whatever reason, Celebrimbor missed the tense note behind it. "I'm surprised."

Celebrimbor waved a hand absently. "I've no need of it yet; I won't until I've finally finished with this." He gestured at the half-carved spinel stone sitting on the table. Celebrimbor directed another deliberately absent smile at Celeborn. "I suppose I could work at home, but I've never been able to concentrate there and nothing in the contract says that I actually have to use the hearth while I'm renting this room. I've known vagrants to rent a room here just so that they'll have somewhere with the capacity to light a fire to stay until they move on."

"Celebrimbor." Celeborn's voice was noticeably harder this time; perhaps Celebrimbor's comment about vagrants had drawn his attention to the pallet sitting in one corner of the room. "How long has it been since you last left this room?"

At this, the smith only shrugged.

Celeborn drew a sharp breath through his teeth; a decidedly exasperated look came over his face. "I… don't suppose I could persuade you to leave?"

"That seems unlikely, yes." Celebrimbor knew that one did not have to be rude to get their point across clearly.

"I will be back soon," Celeborn sighed. "I will bring food, and I expect you to eat."

Celebrimbor nodded, and continued shaping the stone towards the rounded oval shape he wished for it to inhabit.

Later, he would not be able to remember what the food Celeborn brought back for him was or what it had tasted like. He would not remember what sort of drink the Sinda had given him to wash it down with. That barely seemed like anything important at all; why should it matter to him? Celebrimbor had spent enough of his time living in refugee camps or traveling alone to know that it did no one any good to complain about the food they were given freely.

Meanwhile, Celeborn had spied the wastebasket full of broken spinel. His eyebrows shot up curiously as he ran his hands through what by now looked like a small sea of green stones. "What is it that you're making, for it to keep you here for so long?"

Had he really been here long enough for those on the outside to worry? Celebrimbor stared down at the green stone sitting on his worktable, blinking. The words of the spells were swimming in his mind, running together and growing confused. "Oh… It's something I'm planning to give to Galadriel."

"Really?" Celeborn raised an eyebrow again. "You know, Celebrimbor, there are some who might take it the wrong way if someone else was to give jewelry to their wife." Celebrimbor gaped at him in horror, and Celeborn swiftly added, "It was a joke. A _joke_, Celebrimbor."

There were many who speculated that, given how beautiful Galadriel was, Celeborn must have been quite jealous indeed of her attentions. Celebrimbor wondered if Celeborn knew about these speculations.

Celebrimbor didn't say that. Instead, he tried to explain further what he was doing. "…Have you ever heard of the Elessar, Celeborn?"

Celeborn's brow furrowed. "Yes, I have." He leaned against the side of the worktable, folding his arms across his chest. "It was made by a smith from Gondolin, was it not?" When Celebrimbor nodded, he asked, "You're trying to make another stone like it, then?"

"Yes, I am. I studied under Enerdhil for a while on Balar, and Galadriel said something to me that made me think that she might appreciate something like what Enerdhil gave to Idril. You won't tell her?"

"No, I won't."

Silence rose up between them after that. Celebrimbor could hear the clanging of hammer upon metal echoing from the communal chamber. He really didn't know what else to say to Celeborn, not at the moment. The work he had to do would not finish itself.

"Well, I will leave you to your work." Celeborn paused in the doorway. "And Celebrimbor?" An expression that seemed to mingle frustration and worry rested heavily on his face. "Please promise me that you will at least return to your home at night, rather than sleeping here. These may be rooms fit to house vagrants during the winter months, but they are not fit for you."

Celebrimbor nodded and waved a hand at him as he had when Celeborn first came. "I will, I will."

-0-0-0-

True to his word, Celeborn did not return to the forges. He did, however, send Celebrían by with a few books.

After a small knock and being given permission to come in, Celebrían smiled brightly up at him and asked, "What are you doing?"

Celebrimbor smiled down at her, perhaps a little more warmly than he had at her father. "I'm working on something new, Celebrían," he said, and was unable to keep his words from sounding tired. He considered telling her it was a secret, but if Celebrían went around telling people that he was working on something and that it was a "secret", that might start raising uncomfortable questions. Celebrimbor's gaze wandered to the books Celebrían was holding. "What are those, cousin?"

"Oh!" Celebrían held the books out to him. "Papa said for me to bring you these. He said they might help you with what you're doing." Once Celebrimbor, bemused, took the books from her, Celebrían waved and left the way she came—she was always more at home outside, and Celebrimbor doubted that his young cousin counted a stuffy building like the Nenuial forges a pleasant place to be.

A quick perusal of the tomes revealed them to be books of sorcery and spells. Celebrimbor smiled.

-0-0-0-

Despite the Vanyar's claims that they predominantly used songs of power as a medium for pushing out magic in emulation of the One, it seemed that their love of music as a medium for magic had predated their crossing to Aman. The Sindar were nearly as fond as they were of using song to cast spells, and much of their magic utilized music as well. Then again, they were part of that division of the Edhil who had so early on named themselves the Lindar; much of the Sindar's history was recorded in ballads and lays rather than prose, so why should it not be the same with their magic? At least it would not be too much of a change with pace.

The Sindar had songs of power to cast spells for memory, for healing and renewal. The language was different, and even beyond that, the wording of the spells was not the same as could be found in Quenya; they placed emphasis on different things. Where Quenya song-spells for memory spoke of things long past, Sindarin song-spells for memory spoke of things that were lost, and could not be regained. Where Quenya song-spells for healing and renewal spoke of things made weary, Sindarin song-spells for healing and renewal spoke of things marred and tainted by the Shadow.

In places, the differing emphases did not produce something substantially different, but even when it did not, the differences were easy to spot. Finrod and Enerdhil's song-spells had been devised in Aman. It was easy to see where the priorities of the Amanyar and the Úmanyar differed and diverged.

A song to recall that which had been lost long ago.

A song to make whole that which had been broken.

He was sure that his family would have been ashamed to hear him say such a thing, but Celebrimbor thought that these songs struck far deeper a chord with him than the Amanyarin song-spells.

The books Celeborn had sent him spoke of the correct mindset for performing spells such as these. They recommended a calm heart and a mind devoid of troubles and distractions. These things were not necessary to perform the spells, but they were necessary if one wished to put as much of themselves into the spells as possible. Celebrimbor stared down at the spinel stone before him, at the books sitting open on his worktable. He did not think that he would be able to banish his troubles from his heart, but he could try the spells.

Slowly, with a weary, slightly quavering voice, he began to sing.

"_So long ago_

_I knew a gentler time_

_I knew a place of peace_

_The home of my heart_

_So long ago_

_When I knew of peace_

_When joy was not a dream…"_

It took a few tries, but eventually, Celebrimbor held in his hands a green stone as clear as glass.

-0-0-0-

Galadriel still remembered the day Celebrimbor had presented the Elessar to her. She remembered how tired and pale he looked, as though he'd not slept in days (And as Celeborn later confided in her, he probably had not). There was also the sort of tiredness in him that a practitioner of magic could easily identify—he had given a great deal of his power over to something, and the moment Galadriel saw what he was holding in his hands, holding out to her, she knew what his power had gone into making.

The Elessar of Celebrimbor was not nearly as potent in its power as the Elessar of Enerdhil. Celebrimbor had freely admitted that when he gave it to her, commenting with a rueful smile, _"Not all gifts can be mine."_ But it achieved the same effect as the previous brooch bearing the name 'Elessar.' When one looked through the stone, they saw old and weary things as young again. When one looked through the stone, they saw marred, broken things as whole and unmarred once more.

Her words, carelessly spoken, had given birth to this stone. This stone had in time become a source of joy and of grief for Galadriel.

Celebrían gave it back to her earlier today. Galadriel gave it to her just before she wed Elrond, so many centuries ago, and Celebrían, knowing the stone's origins, had taken charge of it gladly. But the first thing she did upon seeing her mother when she arrived in Imladris was hand it to her. _"I don't want to remember anymore," _she said with a broken smile, a thick, ugly scar on her cheek stretching and twitching as she spoke. Elrond said that they were the first lucid words he had heard her speak in days. They were the last lucid words Galadriel heard her speak that day.

Galadriel sat in the dark by her daughter's bedside, taking up a vigil as Celeborn, Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, Arwen, Erestor, Glorfindel and others had borne for so many terrible nights. She stared at the stone she held in her hands.

Celebrían slept a sleep that bore close kin to living death. She did not toss and turn, as one would expect a nís who endured her torment might be expected to. She did not toss and turn as Maedhros had when Fingon first brought him back from his torment on Thangorodrim. When Celebrían slept at all, she slept like this. Utterly motionless, her chest barely rising and falling at all. No sounds escaped her lips, not screams or whimpers. She slept on her back; Galadriel never remembered Celebrían sleeping on her back. It reminded Galadriel entirely too much of the initial stages of fading, but Celebrían showed none of the other signs of her spirit consuming her body. _She is too young besides. It would be thousands of years more before Celebrían would begin to fade, unless a houseless spirit attempted to take up residence within her body—and I think I would know if that was the case._

She looked at the stone, and her daughter. Galadriel remembered when they were traveling to Imladris after the sack of Ost-in-Edhil, leading a small force to succor Celeborn and Elrond. After a battle with Sauron's forces, she found Celebrían sobbing and snapped at her to stop. _"You'll have use for your sword again soon enough; clean it and clear your eyes, daughter."_ It was strange, the things she remembered in the dark of night. She had been impatient and tense, waiting for another attack and knowing that her daughter needed to be on her guard.

Now, she wished that Celebrían would weep. Weeping was so much more normal a reaction to what her daughter had suffered than what Galadriel saw. _"Oh, you'll see weeping soon enough_," Elrond said, with a terrible numbness about him, his eyes dull. _"You'll wish you'd not asked."_

Galadriel saw her daughter's ravaged flesh. She saw her unnaturally still body, lying asleep as a corpse might lie dead. She held the Elessar up to her eyes, and saw through it a vision of Celebrían lying asleep in bed, sleeping normally, her skin unmarked, her broken, twisted fingers extending out from her hands as they ought to, saw her lying there peaceful and undisturbed, instead of sleeping the sleep of living death.

"_That's how the bones healed. Short of breaking them again and setting them correctly, there's nothing I can do."_

"_And you did not wish to inflict such pain upon her, after everything."_

"…_No. …Of course not. Would you?"_

The stone flashed in the moonlight.

"_I made it for you." He smiled shyly, exhausted but triumphant, looking for a moment like Fëanor, but with none of Fëanor's malice or overweening pride._

She always wondered at the sort of effort that must have been put into the making of this stone.

"_I don't want to remember anymore."_

But Galadriel still did.

* * *

Telperinquar—Celebrimbor

**Belegaer**—literally "Mighty Sea" (Sindarin), otherwise known as 'The Great Sea' or 'The Sundering Seas', the sea separating Middle-Earth and Aman, until such time as Aman was removed from the circles of the world; rendered in Quenya as 'Alatairë.'  
**Edhil**—Elves (singular: Edhel) (Sindarin)  
**Anor**—the Sindarin name for the Sun  
**Ennor**—Middle-Earth (Sindarin)  
**Pelóri—**"the fencing or defensive heights" (Quenya); the mountain chain that encircled Aman; the tallest of all the mountains in the world  
**Endóre**—Middle-Earth (Quenya)  
**Hithaeglir**—the Misty Mountains (Sindarin); the mountain range separating Eriador and Rhovanion, the largest mountain range in Middle-Earth; first raised by Morgoth to hinder Oromë in his hunting of Morgoth's creatures  
**Neri**—men (singular: nér)  
**Amanyar**—'Those of Aman' (Quenya) (singular: Amanya—probably) (adjectival form: Amanyarin); those Elves who made the journey to Aman, or were born there  
**Lindar**—'Singers'; the clan name the Nelyar gave themselves (rendered in Telerin as 'Lindai'; rendered in Primitive Quendian as 'lindā' or 'glindā, though the latter appears only in Sindarin), for it was said that they learned to sing before they learned to speak. The Lindar (later known to outsiders as the Teleri) split into several groups: the Falmari of Aman, the Sindar, and the Nandor (which itself encompasses the Laiquendi and the Silvan-folk).  
**Úmanyar**—'Those not of Aman' (singular: Úmanya—probably) (adjectival form: Úmanyarin); those Elves who did not make the journey to Aman, and/or were not born there  
**Nís**—woman (plural: nissi)


End file.
